


sunrise in sight

by hardlythewiser (sequinedfairy)



Category: Men's Basketball RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 16:22:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19321774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sequinedfairy/pseuds/hardlythewiser
Summary: BREAKING: Warriors Star Klay Thompson Comes Out As Gay In Brief Instagram PostSteph drops his phone on his face.





	sunrise in sight

**Author's Note:**

> title from frank ocean, skyline to. 
> 
> note: this fic does deal with homophobia! it's not a huge amount, and all from minor characters, but there's a brief use of a homophobic slur, some internalized homophobia, and reflections on anti-gay preaching. feel free to message me if you need any more info.

The ball bounces off the backboard, hits the rim, and goes in. Before it hits the ground, Steph shoots another one. As soon as it leaves his fingers, he knows it won’t make it, that he let the clutter of his mind get into his fingers. He doesn’t watch it, closes his eyes for a second, breathes in deep.

He’s turning to grab the next ball when Klay steps out of Bob’s office, and he pauses. Klay was tense but hiding it walking in, carefully blank face as Steph watched him from the open gym. Now Klay’s face is hidden by his hoodie, his shoulders tense, walking quickly, confident looseness gone. 

Maybe they’re trying to send him to the Knicks.

Steph jogs after Klay, who’s walking towards the exit with vicious strides. Reaching out, he places his hand on Klay’s shoulder, and Klay whirls around. “I gotta go,” Klay says, looking past Steph’s shoulder.

“You said you’d tell me what was up,” Steph says, stupidly. Klay had been playing against Steph after practice, just messing around, and when Steph had watched Klay’s agent walk in, Klay had laughed and told him he’d fill him in after.

“It’s not about next year,” Klay says as he turns back around, shrugging Steph off. “Don’t worry about it.”

Steph watches Klay as he walks out the doors into the fog. He walks back to the court to pick up the ball he left in the rack. He has to stand there for a long time, breathing deep and relaxing his muscles, one by one, before he’s ready to shoot.

***

They’re playing against the Kings tonight, so a trainer comes out within a few minutes, gently orders Steph to go home and take a nap. Coach, Bob, and someone from PR had slowly trickled out of Bob’s office, all of them walking quickly somewhere else, no one else looking as wretched as Klay.

On the drive home, Steph tries to relax. Klay’s not a sharer, but they’re good, they’ll be fine tonight. It was fun to play against him in the All-Star game, make a four-point play past him, lock eyes while guarding him, talk trash, but he’s ready to have him at his back again. Ready to play the only way he knows how, looking for Klay for corner threes and layups. 

He’s lying in bed, between meditation and jerking off in his pre-nap ritual, when his phone buzzes with a push alert. He picks it up, a little annoyed with himself for forgetting to silence it, and looks at the screen. 

_BREAKING: Warriors Star Klay Thompson Comes Out As Gay In Brief Instagram Post_

Steph drops his phone on his face.

For a second, he can’t process the words, all jumbled together. He picks his phone up and swipes it open.

 

  
**klaythompson** Yo, I’m gay. #butroccostheonlymaninmylife #bechillfam 

 

Steph closes the app, opens Instagram. There it is, at the top. He clicks on Klay’s handle, sees the picture as a thumbnail next to Steph and Klay and KD at All-Star Weekend three days ago. 

***

When Steph gets back to the arena, unrested, he’s hustled to the video session room, where everyone’s huddled around the table. Steph automatically looks for Klay in his usual chair, but it’s empty. Steph sits down next to it. Everyone is sitting straight up, faces set, besides Draymond, who’s sprawled next to Coach with a shit-eating grin, legs in Steph’s space. Steph sits down, shoves Dray’s legs away.

Monica from PR walks in, sits down in Klay’s seat. Steph tenses. “So I’m assuming everyone has seen Klay’s instagram post,” she starts. “Obviously, we are all in complete support of him, but we are sure you will encounter many people with questions. This is a short meeting to make sure everyone is on the same page in regard to our responses.”

Steph breathes in and out, eyes on the screen where he usually watches other teams’ defense.

“Whether or not this is news for you personally, you don’t have to respond to any questions that make you uncomfortable. We recommend you don’t engage online. Support is obviously welcome, but nothing is required besides professionalism and a commitment to the Warriors team and fans.”

Dray raises his hand, and Monica nods at him. “Can I fight anyone who says shit?” he asks.

“No,” Coach says, and Dray laughs.

Monica continues, but Steph’s mind is drifting.

***

His parents were on the sidelines in Charlotte, decked out in Warriors gear. His mom had snuck him some popcorn, called it an early Christmas gift, and he and Klay were setting the backcourt on fire. Less than two minutes in, Klay’d made a shot off Steph’s assist, and it was like the hours of practice and Klay and Steph’s post-practice one-on-ones had just clicked. It was Steph’s fourth year in the NBA and he’d never felt this electricity before, the total assurance that Klay would be where he sent the ball, making shots, everything Steph needed. A minute later, Klay made another three off Steph’s assist, and Steph started grinning, feeling loose, open, ready. 

Not every shot went in, but Klay was just there, getting rebounds, feeding shots to Steph, locking eyes after every basket, both of them a little astounded. Steph couldn’t describe what was crackling between them, palpable, but he knew it was important, that he had to hold on to it.

And he had. Through all the craziness, the rings and the crowds and the transformation from not-even-underdogs to a dynasty, he’d kept locking eyes with Klay after shots, and they’d kept making them. He thought it was real; he thought it mattered. But it turned out that Klay didn’t trust him at all.

***

Monica stops talking eventually, and Coach sends them to suit up in the locker room. Klay’s still not there, but he joins them as they walk, jogging away from another PR girl, Ashley, who seems to still be talking. 

Steph’s opening his mouth to say something—he’s not sure what yet—when Draymond shouts, “The LEGEND,” grabbing Klay in a headlock and giving him a noogie. Klay shoves him off, but he’s laughing, and the other guys seem to relax a little, moving a little closer, walking a little looser.

Steph’s at the back, still trying to make his brain focus. It’s busy landing on every moment Klay could have told him and didn’t — did he do something wrong? Did Draymond know? His brain keeps spinning, but as he enters the threshold of the locker room, he takes a deep breath, settles back into himself. It’s game time.

***

Things start out okay. They’re keeping the ball moving, some sloppy turnovers but good shots, a steal and a two from Klay, Steph making his threes. But Klay’s not all there, and Steve pulls him out with four minutes left in the first. 

Steph could have told him that that time on the bench would just make Klay go deeper into himself, ruminate and lose his touch. He’s sitting hunched in on himself, and the crowd’s staring at him, all the cameras trained on him for closeups. Two minutes later, Quinn replaces Steph, and Steph walks over to Klay, hyperaware of the eyes tracking him in a way he usually isn’t. He grabs his towel, pops his mouthguard in and back out again, and sits next to Klay, DeMarcus on his other side. He hears the click of shutters as he drapes his towel over his head.

There’s only a few inches between them, but Steph has to force himself to sprawl a little wider, knock his knee against Klay’s. Klay looks at him, a little startled, and Steph tries to smile, to be normal. They don’t talk on the bench, ever, but Klay leaves his knee against Steph’s for a minute before he shifts away. 

It goes to shit in the second, losing the ball to the Kings of all teams, and Steph spends the end of first half watching from the sideline, gut clenched. The third’s a mess for everyone, but KD pulls them out, and in the fourth they squeak out a win, but it’s not pretty. Steph can see how tightly Klay’s holding his jaw on the court after, counting down the seconds before he can take off down the tunnel. Out of the corner of his eye, Steph spots Doris walking towards Klay, and he intercepts her like a bad pass. For once, she looks past Steph, clearly uninterested, but Steph’s feet are planted and he’s in front of the camera, blocking her path, smiling at her. 

“Hi Doris,” he says.

“Hi Steph,” she glances at him, then back over his shoulder at Klay. “I was actually trying to get a word with Klay. Big day for him, and for the whole league, really.”

Steph says nothing, doesn’t move. Keeps smiling at the camera. 

Doris sighs, and Steph knows Klay has started down the tunnel. She gives her cameraman a resigned look, and asks Steph, “So, things weren’t looking great out there for a while. How did you turn it around?”

***

By the time Steph makes it back to the locker room, Klay is gone. Steph can’t stand being here any more, wrong-footed and unsure, so he skips his shower, drives home. He’s exhausted enough to drop off, but his sleep is jagged, uneasy, dreams he half-remembers about running and losing something, not being where he’s supposed to be, drifting in and out of danger.

He rolls over onto his stomach. The bed feels empty, and he knows the breakup was the right thing--he wants kids and he’s ready for someone who wants that too--but right now, he’d do anything to have someone else there to pull him out of his head. But there’s just his phone, buzzing with texts he ignores, obviously nothing from Klay.

He opens twitter, and the first tweet he sees is speculating whether Klay’s performance last night is a harbringer of him collapsing under the scrutiny. He huffs out a breath, furious, opens instagram, scrolls through pictures of his friend’s kids, Jeremiah 29:13 posted by his aunt, stops.

 

  
**money23green** This dude is my Brother!! Any shit you wanna say to him, you gotta go through me first... 

Steph likes the post, closes Instagram. Maybe he’ll go for a run.

***

It’s not like Steph’s mad at Klay, or anything. He’s seriously fine with it. He’s just—caught off guard, like a bad landing on an unseen defender, where nothing hurts too bad but the possibilities are hard to shake off. What else is escaping his peripheral vision?

Steph knows how blessed, how impossible, his last few years have been. This season could be the end, any moment could crash it all, every game just a prayer that it can last a little longer. 

He goes to practice, runs drills with Klay, tries to be normal. Makes him laugh, once, though it only lasts a second. Their game against Houston that weekend is a total mess, Houston starting off with a 15-0 run, KD the only one pulling out with a positive plus-minus. Coach looks at them for a long time in the locker room afterward, doesn’t say much. Steph’s looking down, chewing on his mouthguard, shoulders rounded forward. “Figure out your shit,” he orders, “and come to Charlotte as the team we are.” Steph nods. Boogie clasps Klay on the shoulder, and Steph can see something flicker across his face.

***

Klay’s leaning against the window of the plane, headphones in, when Steph pauses, slides in beside him. It’s a night flight, everyone in their travelling sweats, darkness punctuated by the individual glow of phone screens, like the lights on the shore when you’re out at sea. 

Klay nods at him, and Steph settles into the seat. Most of the plane is asleep a little after takeoff, but Steph’s drumming his fingers against his thighs, scrolling through the episodes on his iPad, and Klay’s watching the sharp line of darkness where the mountains start. 

“Hey,” Steph half-whispers, and Klay looks up, shrugs one earbud out. All the things he’d been planning to say—I’m proud of you; whatever you do next year, I’m here for you; I promise I’m cool with this—fades away as he looks at Klay, half-lit, beard barely covering up the same face Steph’s been looking at every day for seven years. His eyelids are low, his mouth half-open, and he looks exhausted. “How’re you doing?”

Klay pulls out a brutal laugh. “Shitty,” he admits. “I haven’t turned on my phone in three days. My mom had to call my landline.”

“I didn’t know you had a landline,” Steph says.

“Neither did I,” Klay says. They’re quiet for a bit, and then Klay says, “Thanks for not being weird.”

Steph’s throat is stuffed with all the things he wants to say, overlapping, but he gets out, “I’m sorry you have to do so many interviews now.”

That makes Klay laugh, loud in the quiet of the plane, like being huddled underneath a duvet. “Fucking 30 for 30 asked if they could do a documentary about me. Inspirational story: dude used to smoke weed and blow dudes, some fucking LA idiot trying to increase his youtube stardom tried to out him, now he smokes weed and hangs out with his dog.”

All the air’s rushed out of Steph’s chest, and he’s left hollow, stunned. “Wait, what?” he manages.

“Yeah, being gay often involves blowing dudes,” Klay says, flat.

“No, you—someone tried to out you? What?” Steph says.

Klay looks at his hands, furious. “Did you think I just fucking wanted to come out right before free agency? So everyone could dissect me?”

“No,” Steph says, helpless, hand useless on the edge of his thigh. “I just—I didn’t know. Fuck that dude.” 

Steph doesn’t get angry, real angry, a lot. He gets frustrated, intense, sometimes spiteful, but right now all that’s in him is unbridled fury, ready to reign down ceaseless destruction on the entire city of Los Angeles, Old Testament style. He realizes that he’s digging his fingers into his thighs, hard, but he doesn’t stop.

“Wish I didn’t,” Klay says. He slides his phone out of his pocket to change the song, but it’s not a phone, it’s an iPod Classic. 

Steph laughs a little, semi-hysterical. “I haven’t seen one of those since 2011.”

“I had to Amazon a new charger,” Klay says, “but it’s still got my college music on it. I told you my phone was off.”

“What was college Klay up to?” Steph asks, leaning close to see what’s on the tiny screen. It’s Kanye, 808s and Heartbreak.

Klay bites his lip for a second, lets it pop out. “The same shit, man.” He presses an earbud into Steph’s palm, big hand warm, and they listen to Love Lockdown. Klay’s a little tense, holding himself as far away from Steph as he can while they’re sharing headphones, looking out the window. Steph can tell the moment he falls asleep: his head tilts toward Steph, loose, like internal effort was all that was keeping him away. Steph looks at him, breathing deep and slow.

Steph takes cues from the people around him, and Klay’d been so studiously avoidant of personal stuff, Steph had just respected it. When he thought about Klay off the court, it was just him and Rocco, in the forests, at the beach, and it felt complete. But now Steph knows there could be someone else there, that maybe Klay wants that, a guy to sleep on during long plane rides, swim in the pool with, lay on the concrete after and maybe mess around. Steph can’t stop wondering what Klay wants that guy to be like; quiet, like Klay is? Loud and funny, like Dray? His face is slack and unguarded, and Steph pictures it in a bed, pictures some guy kissing him awake.

He turns back to his iPad, but he keeps the earbud in, even after the album loops and starts again.

***

The atmosphere in the locker room in Charlotte is different. It’s the first game of a week of travelling, but they’re amped. Steph’s leaning against a locker, eating stale, undersalted popcorn, watching his team hype each other up. The gravity’s back, everyone orbiting each other, tossing around sweatshirts and koosh balls, dunking on each other. Klay’s sitting near him, limbs loose, eyes bright. Steph had gently shaken him awake as the plane landed, and Klay had smiled, sleepy, stretching up and letting his arms fall on Steph.

They come out of the tunnel feeling like champions, ready to kick ass and take names. The fans are booing, and obviously Stay loves the feeling of walking into a wall of cheers at the Oracle, but when he’s in a certain mood the aggressive stares are almost better. There’s no pressure, no expectations, just a chance for him to bring the hammer down on someone.

He locks eyes with Klay and grins at him, shrugs exaggeratedly. Klay smirks back, and it flickers into Steph’s head if that’s how he picks up guys. He shakes the thought out of his head and refocuses.

Within a minute, Steph’s gotten the rebound, sent it to Dray, who’s sent it to Klay for a three. It feels like nothing else will ever feel: like they’re angels playing the game as it’s meant to be, freed from earthly constraints and miscalculations. Steph can’t understand people who write articles about them ruining the game. He’s played basketball since before he could stand, and this, when five men work with the mind of one and the grace of ten, is what it’s about.

He’s on the bench at the beginning of the seconds when Klay stumbles on the other side of the court, almost landing on three guys sitting courtside in suits. One of them shoves Klay off, and Klay turns back. The guy says something, and Steph can’t hear but he knows it’s ugly from the way Draymond turns around, probably about to punch him. Klay, face blanker than Steph’s ever seen, grabs Dray’s arm and pivots him back to the court, shaking his head. 

Steph looks at Coach, wants to call the refs, get the guy ejected, do anything, but Coach just shakes his head tight. Steph stands up, and Coach walks over to him, places a firm hand on his shoulder. Levels him back down. “Klay and I talked about this, Steph. He’s the one who’s in charge of when to escalate things to the refs. Not you, not me.”

Balling up the towel in his hands, Steph stays stubbornly still, his shoulders still by his ears. “Your job is to show them what fucking idiots they are, got it?” Coach asks, and Steph reluctantly nods.

But he spends the rest of his time on the bench wondering what the guy said, and what he would have done if he heard it. He watches Klay make play after play, making close shots and beautiful threes, the kind of shit he pulls out when he wants to show what he can do. He’s sliding through screens like water, hitting shots like a tsunami. Steph feels like he’s not really in himself, that the tips of his fingers and his toes aren’t quite his. 

When he gets back on the court, he lets himself orbit Klay like usual, and they get 9 points in a minute and a half. But when Klay gets subbed in by Looney, the thread between doesn’t cleanly snap, but frays. Half Steph’s mind is still running down that final thread between them, and he’s playing a phantom game, shots disconnecting, passes failing. 

Even when they’re back together, Steph can’t get back on the bull. The quiet perfection of the game, where it’s just him and his team and the ball, is out of reach; he can’t stop hearing the crowd. 

They win, but Steph knows his own stats; it’s no thanks to him. His mom embraces him, and he counts to three mississippi before extracting himself. His dad looks at him, searching, and for once Steph’s not sure what he’ll find in his face. He doesn’t say much, gives him a hug too, and Steph turns to talk to Doris, who, for all her faults, at least won’t give him a third hug.

Klay hasn’t bolted to the locker room, so they walk down the tunnel together, Klay filled with victory, striding. Steph throws himself in for a hug, and Klay wraps his arms around him, joyful laughter in his ear. “Dude,” Steph says, a little awed; he loves watching Klay on fire.

Klay smiles big, rubs Steph’s curls. “Let’s go out,” he says. “Somewhere too cool for teenage Steph.”

“Everywhere was too cool for teenage Steph,” Steph says, and Klay laughs.

Tomorrow’s a travel day, and it seems like the whole locker room has the same idea as Klay. Everyone’s jostling each other, recounting plays, cheering for Klay. For once, Steph’s in the background while Klay’s in the spotlight, and he takes advantage of it to watch Klay. 

They end up at a typical club, girls in high heels and big bottles of Champagne. Everyone stares when they troop in, most of the squad along for the ride, but Klay’s in the center, semi-protected from prying eyes.

Steph and Klay were crushed together on the ride to the place, Klay’s arm draped over Steph so KD could fit on his other side. Steph was intensely aware of how warm he was, his fresh post-shower smell, every minute movement of his hips, his on-court awareness transposed to the back of an Uber. 

When they walk in, Steph turns to Dray. “Shots?” he asks, to Draymond’s delighted grin. Steph’s ready to turn his brain off.

***

Four drinks later, Steph’s lounging in the corner booth. The club is hot, sticky, and he’s watching a drop of sweat drip down Klay’s neck, almost to the collar of his shirt. There’s a couple of other guys around—Quinn and Boogie arguing about which one of them cocktail waitress was into (the answer is neither), a few guys dancing nearby. They’ve had a loose semi-circle around Klay the whole night, no one mentioning anything or even making eye contact about it, just making sure no rando gets too close. Klay’s focusing on his gin and tonic, watching the crowd. The drop slides under the collar of his patterned button-up, and Steph wonders where it’ll go, down his chest or down his back.

“I loved watching you tonight,” Steph says, trying to shake himself out of it, and it knocks Klay back from wherever he was. 

“Thanks, man,” Klay says, looser than Steph’s seen him since the meeting, since before all this. “Felt good to bring the hammer down.”

In front of them, McKinnie starts kissing some girl in a tight black dress who can’t quite stand upright on her heels, and Steph says, “Wanna grab some air?”

Klay gets up, pushes a path through the crush of the dance floor, one hand on Steph’s wrist to keep him close. Steph lets himself be tugged, and they end up in the corner of the patio. Steph can feel his sweat cooling on his skin as he looks up at Klay. 

In the lull of quiet on the patio, Steph accidentally asks what he’s been thinking about all night. “What did that guy say to you?”

Klay drops his glass onto the railing, hard, and it teeters for a second before he steadies it. “Why the fuck would you ask me that?”

“I wanted to punch him,” Steph tells him, avoiding the question he has no good answer for. 

“Me too,” Klay says. “But you don’t need to ask me. You know courtside white dudes, it was just a new way for him to be a dick.”

“I just feel shut out,” Steph confesses, drunk and too-honest, needy. “Like, did Dray know? Before?”

Klay’s opening his mouth to respond, pissed off, when a blond girl teetering on her heels and her two friends come up to them, too close. “Heyyy,” the guys says. “You’re the gay basketball dude!”

“Can we have a picture?” the girl asks. “I love gay people!”

Steph looks at them, stone eyed. “No,” he tells them flatly. The girl opens her mouth, affronted, but the third guy — quiet, less drunk — tugs her away, and she spins, tossing her blond hair so it smacks Steph in the face. 

It’s silent for a second, just the sound of the girl’s heels stomping away, the chatter around them, the beat of the music from inside. “This is bullshit,” Klay finally says. “I’m going back to the hotel.”

Steph watches his back as he walks away. When he disappears in the crowd, he picks up Klay’s drink, finishes it, wincing at the bitterness.

He stops by the bar on his way back to the table. The girl behind the bar, eyebrow piercing and dark lipstick, short hair, looks him over and raises her eyebrow, a little challenging, and Steph isn’t sure what she wants, what she sees. “A mojito, please,” he asks, and he watches her as she makes it. Why did he ask Klay that, break the spell of the night? 

It’s a short list of people Klay loves, trusts. A few of his college teammates, his brothers and his parents, and Steph thought him. When Klay’s in, he’s in, and Steph just wanted to be there with him, in the trenches, not Mark Jackson on the sidelines.

“Hey,” the bartender says sharply, and Steph refocuses, hands her his card, leaves her a stupidly large tip. He’s not sure why; she didn’t smile, she wasn’t friendly. But her eyes were dark and her face set and her attitude no-bullshit.

Dray studies him when he gets back to the table, eyes sharp, and asks where Klay went. Steph says, “Hotel,” shrugging, and Dray nods, not looking away from Steph as Steph turns towards KD. Steph’s skin itches with the weight of Dray’s gaze: it’s never a good sign when he watches you quietly. 

He ends up getting a couple more drinks from the bartender, unable to stand any conversation for too long. The single guys have found pretty girls to bring to the table, soft and easy with Southern accents and bluebell laughter Steph remembers from high school. The taken guys are making their own fun, shots and dancing and flip cup with glass shotglasses. Steph can’t imagine what he usually does here. He pictures Klay in his room, playing Smash Bros, tournament style, brutally destroying 10 NPCs. 

“Do you play video games?” he asks the girl when she gives him his fourth drink, shouting a little over the music. 

“What the fuck?” she responds.

“You seem like you’d be good at them,” he tells her. 

Her eyes narrow, then soften imperceptibly. “I’m great at them,” she tells him, and he laughs, surprised, delighted.

“I’m gonna go play Smash Bros,” he announces, picks up his drink, chugs half, puts it back. He pushes through the crowd, feeling the ghost of Klay’s hand around his wrist, calls an Uber.

In the back of the cab, he remember why he wasn’t already playing Smash, how dumb he was. He’s gotta try to explain, say sorry, try to convince Klay to lower the drawbridge, unlock the gate. Keep shooting till he makes it in, till they’re up again. 

He’s knocking on Klay’s hotel room and no one answers. He keeps knocking, bad beats and little rhythms, leaning against the door because his legs are starting to feel real tired, until the door is suddenly opened, and Steph falls into Klay’s big body. 

Klay puts his arms up to catch him, startled, and ends up palming Steph’s shoulder, one hand wrapped around the muscle, fingertips almost brushing his neck. The stand there for an inhale, Steph feeling Klay’s bare stomach brush against his, and on the exhale Klay pushes him away, firmly but not without care. 

“The fuck, man,” Klay murmurs. He looks exhausted, low-slung UWS sweats and no shirt, and Steph feels off-balance. 

“I wanted to say sorry,” Steph says. “I was an idiot.”

Klay doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move. But he doesn’t shut the door. The hum of the AC sounds loud, and Steph can see a pause screen on tv, quiet loops of music. 

“You’re my — you’re my shooting guard, you’re my rock. We’re the Splash Bros.” Klay’s mouth quirks, unreadable. “And I just felt like you’re slipping away, and I grabbed too hard. I just wanna know what’s up with you, you know?” Steph has to put his hand on the door to steady himself, out of breath. He’s ripping himself open, guts spilling onto the beige carpet between them. He has no idea what Klay’s eye, which can spot invisible gaps in a screen, knows what mistake his man will make before he makes it, will see. 

Klay steps back, and Steph thinks that he’s done it, they’re done, but his chest loosens, not quite slumping, and he says, “Well, what’s up right now is that I’m getting bored of playing Smash by myself.”

Steph follows him into the room, flops on the bed, sinking into the rumpled covers, arms stretched out above his head, eyes half-closing with the luxury of softness. There’s a hard, bumpy lump under his hip, and he shimmies until he gets it out from under him. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Klay freeze, chest still, for just a moment, before he goes to his bag to get another controller. Steph sits up, reluctantly, but he ends up slumping into Klay, both of them cross legged on the edge of the bed. 

Klay crushes him—of course he does, he’s a shark and Steph’s fighting to keep his eyes open. But Steph manages to shove him off Hyrule Castle a couple times by constantly repeating Link’s sword attack, laughing as Klay sputters indignantly. 

After a few rounds, Klay’s legs are jostling Steph’s, shoulder pressing back into Steph.“There was this girl at the bar,” Steph says, while they’re watching highlights, and he feels Klay retreat, like the sudden pull back of the water before a tsunami. Steph feels exposed to the cold room air. “The bartender. She reminded me of you. She played video games too.”

“Why aren’t you having her kick your ass tonight then?” Klay says, sharp as ice. 

Steph frowns. He’s messed it up again, and his brain is like molasses, can’t catch up to Klay. “It wasn’t like that. We didn’t, like, talk. I just told her that I thought she’d be good at video games, and she said she was. She wasn’t trying to be friendly — I don’t know if she even likes guys. She just looked at me, like, challenging. Like when you defended me at the All-Star game.”

Steph turns his head, away from the screen, and Klay’s right there, closer than he expected, mouth a little open, staring at Steph. 

They’re frozen in the moment, neither of them breathing. Steph’s intensely aware of his knee, inches away from Klay in the dip between them, his hand almost brushing Klay’s thigh, the breath caught in his throat. He can’t read Klay’s expression, but he never wants to look away. Steph bites his lip, and Klay’s eyes drop down, heavy. It’s like the moment before a free throw leaves your hands, like looking down at the Grand Canyon from a plane. 

Klay swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing, and Steph reaches his finger out to touch it. His finger just brushes his throat when Klay blinks, moves away. Steph’s finger stays hanging in the air. 

“Bedtime,” Klay says, low and rough, still looking at him, and Steph opens his mouth a little. 

Klay stands up, turns away from Steph, and suddenly Steph’s drinks hit him like a train. “For me,” Klay says, voice mostly back to normal. “Night, dude.” He walks to the bathroom. There are freckles across his shoulders, a bruise right above the tag of his sweatpants. He closes the door behind him, doesn’t turn on the light. 

In the dark of the room, Steph hears nothing, not even the tap running. He drops his hand onto the bed, fists his hand in the cover. After a second, the tap starts. He levers himself up, opens the door and squints into the bright hallway light, pauses. “Night, Klay,” he calls. There’s no response. 

It takes a while for him to fall asleep, even as drunk as he is. 

***

At Davidson, Steph drank, but not like everyone else. It was hard, even in the off-season, knowing that it rested on him, that one dumb move, a few days of inferior effort, could ruin it, prove everyone else right. He doesn’t usually like feeling too out of control—loose, yeah, but not enough to wreck him. Hangovers are wasted days, ones you can’t get back.

The waste is particularly clear when you’re puking into the toilet, fifteen minutes before bus call. 

Last night’s a little hazy, but Klay stands out crystal clear. He’s less sure about what Steph himself was doing, his motivations, but he remembers Klay’s face, angry outside the bar, resigned in the doorway of his room, totally still when he was looking at Steph.

He wipes his mouth, levers himself up, brushes his teeth. His head spins a little when he leans down to spit, but he pushes it down.

He slides onto a mostly-full bus. No Klay yet, so he drops down in his own row, right behind KD. Puts his backpack in the corner, slumps on it, closes his eyes and tries to slow down his breath. 

Klay gets on the bus last, hoodie up, and collapses into the first open seat, looking like a mess. He’s got his earbuds in, and Steph can see the top of his head above the seats.

***

It’s a short flight to Miami, travelling down the coast, blue stretching out in what feels like the wrong direction. There’s a quick practice and early night. Steph doesn’t avoid Klay, and he doesn’t think Klay’s avoiding him, but they’re not talking much either. They run drills together, Steph focusing on himself, not looking at Klay’s quick footwork, the rhythm of his dips and jumps. After practice, they’re both running shooting drills on opposite sides of the gym, clean and bloodless. 

They lose to the Heat, but they fight to the last minute, and Klay bumps Steph’s hip with his, grinning, in the middle of the third. 

They hop from Miami to Orlando. Miami’s buildings were turquoise, seashell pink, yellow against the grey sky, but Orlando’s pure sprawl, the humidity pressing down on them, nothing but brown and grey, the green at the edges, as the plane descends. 

The oppressive atmosphere follows them into the climate-controlled stadium. KD’s resting, Jerebko’s out, and Andre’s sick with whatever Jordan had on Monday. It’s a ragged band of warriors exiting the tunnel. 

It’s the middle of the second quarter, they’re down by eight, when Klay stumbles, lands hard on his knee, grimaces. Dray rushes over to lever him up, but Steph can’t do anything but stare at him crumpled on the floor. Klay shakes it off with visible effort, stays in the game, but each twist lacks its usual fluidity, the state of grace. McKinnie subs him out, and Klay sits on the bench, blank-faced. 

Steph keeps shooting, because there’s nothing else he can do. 

They lose, again, to the Magic. At least Steph’s parents weren’t there. 

The trainers hustle Klay to the exam room after the game, Klay limping more and more as he walks down the tunnel, the adrenaline wearing off. The door shuts, and Steph stares at it, a sandbag in between his lungs. 

***

Steph drops by Klay’s room after dinner, sour straws in hand. “I’m not getting up,” Klay calls when he knocks, “if you’re room service the door’s open.” Steph opens the door. 

Klay’s sitting up on the bed, pillows arranged like a throne, knee wrapped in a compression bandage and ice packs, resting on a foam half-circle from the trainers. He’s playing Call of Duty, the gunfire loud, jarring. He doesn’t look up, and Steph hovers awkwardly by the bed. On the screen, his character gets shot, and he tosses the controller on the bed, leans back against the pillows, wincing at a micromovement in his knee. 

“I brought you sour straws,” Steph says, handing them over. 

Klay takes them, opens them up, pops one into his mouth, teeth tugging it in half. Steph’s seen Klay after injuries before, but the wear is starting to show on both of them. 

“Trainers think I should miss Philly “ Klay says, abrupt as ever. When he’s hurt, worn-down, his small reserve of small talk is the first thing to go. 

Steph tries not to show the conflicting swamp of worry and nostalgia and sadness he’s in. He feels stupid, still standing by the bed, and perches on the edge. “That sucks,” he manages, and Klay snorts, rips apart another sour straw with his canines. Steph can’t look away. 

“The vet’s worried about Rocco’s joints too, so we can always hobble to the beach together when my leg gives out,” Klay says, staring down at his knee. 

Steph’s brain is momentarily shut down by the horror of Klay saying when, joking so matter-of-factly about the end, and in the gap between hearing and processing, Steph’s body has wrenched control, pressed his lips against Klay’s. 

Steph can feel the indent in Klay’s lip from where he bit it, probably from pain. His mouth is just barely open, and Steph’s head is tilted, feeling the pressure of his plush bottom lip. 

For a second, neither of them breathe. Steph can smell the sweat on him, his fancy shampoo, the artificial sugar of the sour straws. He wonders, faintly, if Klay can smell him. 

Abruptly, Klay shoves him away, and Steph’s eyes fly open, his hands catching him on the bed right before he topples off. 

Klay’s hands are gripping his thighs, his eyes wild. “What the fuck was that,” he demands

Steph opens his mouth, but his brain doesn’t provide any words. He’s still reeling from the feeling of Klay right there. 

For what feels like an eternity, Steph tries to say something, anything, but his brain and his throat are both stuffed with cotton. 

“I can’t be your experiment, Steph,” Klay says. There’s anger in his voice, but it’s overlaid with sadness and palpable exhaustion. He picks up his controller again. 

Steph feels like he just took a charge from LeBron. He gets up, stiffly, walks to the door. Klay doesn’t look away from the paused screen once.

***

Steph’s lying awake, staring at the ceiling, hating himself. Replaying every idiotic thing he’s said or done to Klay in the past week, Klay’s broken-open face after. It’s what he’s been doing for what feels like hours, and he finally gives up, rolls over onto his stomach, picks up his phone. Like reopening a scab, knowing you’re just going to bleed more, he opens twitter, searches Klay thompson. 

Pictures, articles, memes, stupid tweets from random idiots fill his screen. The first tweet is a hot take about how the NBA will handle its first out superstar, and he scrolls down, reading fights in the comments, trolls proclaiming that they’d never share a locker room with Klay, twelve different accounts saying that they don’t understand why it matters, that we should all just focus on basketball. One person calls Klay a fag.

When he hits the end of the thread, he swipes back, clicks on the next tweet.

He doesn’t stop until his phone dies, putting him out of his misery.

***

Klay sits out practice the next day in his warm-up suit, sides of his pants unzipped because he always runs hot. He won’t look at Steph, and Steph’s too much of a coward to break his silent, furious bubble. His knee’s still wrapped in ice, and Steph overhears the trainers talking about an MRI on Sunday, after the game.

Steph tries to lose himself in the sound of the basketball, the smell of rubber and sweat and cleaning supplies, the feeling of his muscles moving in sync. 

It goes okay, deleting twitter and sleeping fitfully that night, moving on autopilot the next morning. On the bus from practice to the hotel, Steph’s phone vibrates, and he swipes open the text without thinking about it.

It’s from his worst cousin, Jason, who used to call Steph a pussy for still hugging his mom, and who’s still bitter about not being drafted fifteen years ago. It’s a crude meme, with a photo of Klay on the floor, grimacing as he clutches his knee. In blocky text, it reads:  
FEBRUARY 21ST: KLAY THOMPSON ANNOUNCES HE’S A HOMOSEXUAL  
FEBRUARY 28TH: KLAY THOMPSON SUFFERS UNEXPECTED KNEE INJURY, CAN’T PLAY  
COINCIDENCE???  
BASKETBALL IS GOD’S SPORT. KEEP IT THAT WAY!

Underneath it, he’s texted Praying for u [prayer hands emoji]

It’s so idiotic, so useless, but it swamps Steph with fury and disgust, discomfort and, as much as he hates it, shame. It’s not really about Jason, who’s been a dick since he was six years old. It’s about the other people he knows, good people, people who love Steph and who he loves, who wouldn’t post that meme, but might think, might say before church, _what did he expect_ and _it’s just not natural_ and _I’ll pray for him_. And he doesn’t know what to say to that, feels tongue-tied and awkward, like a kid again, even in his own brain.

Across the aisle from him, Andre’s texting, probably his wife. Steph remembers him beaming when he showed Steph pictures of the wedding, in a tiny chapel in Mexico, his voice full of wonder as he described how intensely he felt God there as he took his vows. He thinks about Andre staring down some fans who were getting a little rowdy after Klay’s fall last night, his ribbing Klay during practice in Miami, same as ever. 

He follows Andre off the bus, walks with him into the elevator in a crush of guys. Andre turns left out of the elevator, and Steph follows him even though his room is to the right. Andre looks back, confused, and Steph forces himself to ask, “Can I talk to you?”

“Of course,” Andre says, opening his door. “Come in, man.”

Steph sits on the armchair, and Andre sits on the bed. “Have people been talking to you about Klay? Like, people from church?”

Andre makes a face. “You too, huh?” he asks.

“How do you deal?” Steph asks, desperate.

Andre doesn’t answer right away, just looks at Steph, slow and clear. Steph tries not to squirm. “One time, I watched Klay shoot from fifty feet out in the middle of a game and make it. You can’t do that if you’re not right with God.” Steph laughs—he remembers that moment, remembers Klay’s smug face for the rest of the night. “I know Klay, I’ve seen him breaking records and I’ve seen him broken. He’s spending every day trying to reach new heights, hanging out with his dog, and pushing us all to be better. How many of the people saying shit are doing that?”

Steph thinks about Jason, shakes his head.

“I’ve been praying for a long time, Steph. I know you have too. I know when Jesus tells me something is wrong, and this ain’t wrong.”

Steph swallows. He wants to be as resolute, as secure, as Andre, but he’s still teetering at the edge, worried what will happen when he looks down. “I can’t. I can’t lose either,” he admits. Faith and Klay, Klay and faith—they’re his two rocks.

“You don’t have to,” Andre promises. “Don’t listen to me. Get on your knees, talk to Him yourself.”

***

Back in his room, Steph sinks to his knees, a familiar movement. As soon as he settles in, he can feel his breath get more even, his chest loosening. Shoulder blades draw together as he bring his hands together in front of him. 

_Dear Lord,_ he begins, _please guide me._ Images run through his head — him as a kid, swallowing harshly when the preacher talked about the sins of modern life, of people perverting God’s plan. The sun shining through a stained-glass window. Praying with his teammates and Coach Jackson while Klay practiced his threes outside, the grace and blessings in both those endeavors. His dad’s face, furious but with something else, when he overheard Jason and his friends calling Steph gaywad. Klay floating in the ocean, giving himself over totally to the waves, shaking the water out of his hair as he walks out. The collective power, the love, of a whole church singing in harmony. 

He refocuses. _I’m lost,_ he admits. _I’m in a fog, I don’t know what’s up and down. I just want Klay to get better._

He swallows. 

_To be happy. To stay with me._

It’s terrifying to think. His eyes almost fly open, but he breathes in deep, recenters himself. 

_Is that wrong?_

The room stays as it is. The walls don’t crumble, the earth doesn’t shake. Steph is still there, still Steph. 

_I’m trying my best, Lord. I’m so grateful for all the ways You’ve blessed me._

__

__

_I will love my neighbor as myself._

Slowly, a sense of peace spreads in Steph. It starts as a little ball, lodged underneath his sternum, but it radiates outward, until Steph is dazed, smiling. 

He’s ready. 

***

The game that night requires Steph’s total focus, and he gives it. He and KD are playing off each other, trying to exploit the lack of Embiid.

They’re down by 12 at half time, Steph coming off four and a half minutes without a basket. He walks on autopilot towards Klay, who’s sitting with his elbows braced on his knees, chin resting on his hands like it’s the only thing keeping him upright, staring into the middle distance. Klay looks up when Steph’s only a few feet away, and shuts down, like slamming a lid of an old-fashioned trunk, heavy and final. He levers himself up from the bench, grimacing at the pain, and hobbles over to a trainer Steph knows he hates. Steph knows he needs to look away, can hear the shutters of a million long-range cameras capturing his stupidly distraught face as he watches Klay’s back, catalogues every second of hesitation as he steps on his right foot. Eventually, Steph makes himself sit down where Klay was sitting, feels his residual warmth. 

Klay joins the team huddle at the final possible moment, stand precisely a third of the circle away from Steph, no chance of accidental contact with Steph’s hands or eyes. Steph knows he deserves it, deserves worse, but that doesn’t make it any easier. 

In the second half Steph misses more threes than he gets, but he takes a charge that makes him feel breathless and brutally satisfied, ties the score. They pull it out, 126-125, and Steph pulls Dray in for a hug. 

Dray hugs him back, firm, without his usual broad smile. He pulls back, stares at Steph until Steph pulls away to clasp hands with JJ Redick. Klay’s back on the court, in his suit, still favoring his right leg a little. 

After, he’s walking down the tunnel when Dray grabs him by the elbow, tugs him past the locker room, away from the crowd. Steph’s hair is damp with sweat, and he can see it glistening on Dray’s shoulders and arms. 

“What’s up with you and Klay,” Dray says, flat. Steph’s startled, overwhelmed with the directness, and Dray’s eyes narrow, ready to hammer into the crack Steph revealed. “Dude looks like Rocco when he hasn’t been fed and whenever he looks at you, it’s like,” Dray makes an exaggerated sad face, eyebrows up, big mouth pouty. 

“Klay doesn’t look like that,” Steph objects. 

“Not when you’re looking back,” Dray counters. “Seriously, what’s happening?”

Steph thinks about trying to lie, but he’s a bad liar. “I kissed him.”

Dray blanches, and Steph feels a sick twist of satisfaction. “Why the hell would you do that?”

“When did Klay tell you he was gay?” Steph asks, ignoring the question. 

“He never told me. Unlike some people, I can put together context cues. I figured it out years ago. Why, are you jealous?”

“Kinda,” Steph admits. 

Dray looks at him, really looks. Steph doesn’t look away. This is JV compared to what he’s going to get from Klay. 

“I think he was trying harder to hide it from you,” Dray says, his voice soft. 

“Oh,” Steph says. “Well. I think I’m gonna try again.”

Dray smiles at him, astounded, shaking his head slowly. “Brave, man.”

***

When Steph gets to the locker room, Klay’s gone. He rides back on the bus to the hotel, everyone else’s chatter a background hum. Steph always works best with a mission. 

Steph stops by his hotel room, changes into a tight white t-shirt, his nicer sweats. He looks at himself in the mirror, considers. He knows that he might have already lost any chance he might have had. Klay might never want to talk to him again, might grit his teeth through the rest of the season, never smiling at Steph, then get as far away as he can. It might be that the only time Steph ever feels Klay’s touch again is by fouling him, taking his charge. Klay might just not be interested, repelled by Steph’s adolescent fumbling, pitying or disgusted. 

But he has to try. 

There’s no answer when he knocks on Klay’s door, which Steph expected. He keeps knocking, calls “Hey, Klay,” through the door. Inside, the bang-bang-bang of a video game increases a notch. 

“Just a minute,” Steph calls, “and I’ll leave you alone, I promise.”

The sound inside grows a little louder, then pauses. Klay opens his door just enough to glare at Steph. “What,” he says. 

Steph looks at him — Rocco boxers peeking over his sweats, ratty t-shirt, glowering. His sharp brown eyes, his strong nose, his full pink mouth. The scruff trailing down his neck, the hollow at the base of his throat that Steph wants to kiss, reverent. It’s stupid, how much he likes looking. How well he memorized every detail before he knew what he was doing or why. 

He pushes Klay inside carefully, follows him, shuts the door before he can shove Steph away. He reaches up and kisses Klay — a real kiss, mouth open, hand reaching up to palm the back of his neck. He traces his tongue over Klay’s lip, looking for indents. 

Klay’s hands are still in fists by his side, pressed into Stephs thighs, but Steph can feel them loosening. He slides his hand into Klay’s curls, marveling at how soft they are, opens his mouth a little wider. 

He pulls away. “I’m kissing you,” he says, “because I want to. A lot. I hope you’re cool with that.”

Klay’s completely shut down, and Steph thinks that’s it, that he’s destroyed it completely, no Roman ruins, just rubble and salted fields. He feels sick, deep in his gut. 

But a few moments later, while Steph’s still frozen with terror, the lines around Klay’s eyes start to crinkle, opening up like an origami flower. Slowly, like watching the sun come up over the horizon, Klay starts to smile. Steph’s never seen a smile like this before. 

“What the fuck,” Klay says, but his tone is hopeful, incredulous, full of wonder. 

Steph knows his beam must look a little stupid, but he can’t help it. His hand is still in Klay’s hair, Klay’s hand on his hip. “Sorry I was a little slow on the uptake.” He’s about to say more, but Klay leans down, kisses him, once, just a press of lips. He pulls back. 

“You idiot,” Klay says fondly, and he shakes his head, rueful. Klay pulls back and removes his hand from where it had settled on Steph’s hip. Steph already misses it, misses his hair as it falls from his grip. “I meant it,” he says, serious, his smile eclipsed by fear. “I can’t be your experiment, Steph. If we’re doing this, you gotta — it’s gotta be real.”

“It is,” Steph promises. “I prayed about it.” Klay laughs, semi-hysterical, and Steph pushes through. “I’m not, like, experienced, but I’m in it. On the court, off the court, you and me. As long as you want.”

Steph’s just finishing the final t in want when Klay kisses him, hungry, desperate. Steph’s never been kissed like this before, with a hand capable of cradling the entire back of his skull, one finger stroking behind his ear. He opens his mouth and Klay sucks his lower lip into his mouth, bites it. Steph makes a soft noise, an “Oh,” and it just encourages Klay, other hand coming up to rest between Steph’s shoulder blades, pull him even closer in. 

He tries to give as good as he gets, but he’s overwhelmed by the reality of Klay, surrounding him, soap and musk and something Steph’s been smelling for seven years without labeling it, that lingers on his skin after championship hugs, something pure Klay. Klay pushes him up against the door, telegraphing each movement as though Steph might object, as though there’s anything in the world Steph wants more than that. He wraps his thigh around Klay, pulls him in, as he slides his hand down to the small of Klay’s back, where all his muscles taper into pure coiled strength. It’s Klay’s turn to make a noise, surprised and gasping, and Steph smiles in victory, knows Klay can feel it against his mouth. 

“Oh, it’s like that, huh?” Klay asks, breath hot against Steph’s mouth, and Steph nods cockily, is about to reply when Klay’s hands change, from exploratory to conquering. He slides his hand up Steph’s t-shirt, and suddenly Steph can’t breathe, can’t think, just from the touch of bare skin on skin. Klay doesn’t let up, kissing Steph fiercely, making his knees go weak. 

Steph’s trying to push up Klay’s shirt, but Klay’s arms are getting in the way, hands roaming all over Steph. Klay pulls back, finally, tugs his shirt off with one hand at the back of his neck. Steph realizes suddenly that he knows that move, has felt the same swoop in his stomach, not just with Klay but during shirts vs skins games in high school, at the pool during conditioning freshman year, a tall senior telling him he should get in, really, the water’s warm. 

Klay kisses him again, starts tugging him towards the bed, and Steph follows, leaving that thought for later. They’re tripping over each other’s feet, laughing, because neither of them will stop kissing. 

Klay hits the edge of the bed first, flops backwards, and Steph follows, holding himself up just enough to make sure he doesn’t smack Klay’s knee. Klay’s head is almost hanging off the bed, his feet still on the floor, big dumb grin on his face. 

“You look like Rocco,” Steph tells him, and Klay gasps, mock-offended. “Like Rocco after you feed him steak. You just need to let your tongue loll out a little farther.”

Grabbing Steph’s ass, Klay smirks. “Excuse me, I have not been fed _any_ steak so far.”

Steph melts into him, and Klay’s expression softens to amazement. “This okay?” he asks quietly, and Steph nods, unable to form words, has to kiss Klay’s neck. 

Klay shift them so they’re lying the right way on the bed, Klay with his knee propped up, Steph’s thighs around his other thigh, grinding into him. Klay’s pushes up Steph’s shirt enough that their abs are pressed together, Klay’s dick hard against the hollow of his hip. He’s sweeping his hands up and down Steph’s back, pausing just a little longer, a little lower, each time. Steph’s trying not to squirm too obviously, but Klay slides his hand underneath the waistband of Steph’s sweats and Steph keens, rocking desperately into Klay. 

“Jesus,” Klay says, then, “uh, no offense.” Steph kisses him for being so stupid, shoves back at Klay’s hand. But Klay won’t go any lower, just the tips of his fingers inches under Steph’s waistband. 

“Come on,” he urges, biting the side of Klay’s neck. Klay slides his hand lower, but not enough, and Steph rocks back and forth, not enough friction anywhere. 

“Steph,” Klay says, into his mouth, panting, “we don’t—we can do whatever you feel comfortable with.” His hand is grabbing Steph’s ass, but keeps backing away, hesitating, and Steph’s gonna snap soon. 

“I want—” Steph says, but he can’t get the words out. “Please,” he manages. 

“You want—“ Klay says, and squeezes harder, lets on finger creep a little closer to the place that Steph can’t stop feeling, that overwhelms him completely. Steph rolls his hips, nods, bites his lip. 

“Steph, you don’t have to—” Klay tries to say, his control fraying but still in place. 

Steph interrupts him, “Do you want to?”

Klay’s eyes widen and his mouth opens. “Yes,” he admits. 

“Then do it,” Steph demands, and finally, finally, Klay’s finger brushes Steph. Steph bucks, voice lost, everything focused on Klay. 

He keeps kissing Klay, open mouthed, lines of kisses along his jaw, biting his lip, while Klay peels them both out of their sweatpants and boxers, keeps touching Steph all over, one hand on his ass. 

Klay reaches over to the nightstand, grabs something. He pulls away from Steph, looks at him while Steph blushes. “We can stop any time,” he promises, then squirts the lube on his fingers and finally, finally, slides one finger into Steph. 

It’s like nothing Steph’s ever felt, all his thoughts rushing out of him, replaced with raw need. He can’t keep track of anything, can just murmur and whine while Klay steadily fucks him, kisses his bitten mouth, rubs Steph’s back in soothing circles. “God,” Klay says, voice like a prayer, “God, babe.”

Eventually, imperceptibly, Steph goes from feeling overfull to not full enough, and he kisses Klay again, sweet. “Please,” he gasps out, and Klay shudders beneath him. 

“Please,” he says again, rushing out of him like a dam that’s breaking. “Please, please, please.”

“Darling,” Klay says, then kisses him like he’s trying to distract Steph from what he just said, crooking his fingers. 

“Klay, _please,_ ” Steph begs, can’t hold himself back. 

Klay pulls back, and their eyes lock. Steph doesn’t know what Klay sees — he feels wrecked, gone — but Klay nods, then blanches. “I don’t have anything, I’m sorry, I’ll —”

“It’s fine,” Steph interrupts. Klay’s forehead wrinkles in confusion. “She had a thing, we didn’t use them. If you’re good, I’m good.”

“Christ,” Klay murmurs, barely breathing. Steph can feel his still fingers so intensely. “We shouldn’t. We can do other stuff.”

“Are you clean?” Steph asks. They’re extremely well monitored — Klay would know. 

Klay nods without hesitation, looks at Steph for a long, long moment. Steph’s chest is still heaving, his hips working backwards in uncontrollable little movements. “We don’t have to,” Klay says, but Steph knows he’s won. 

“Klay, fuck me, please,” he manages, then kisses him frantically, unable to keep looking at Klay after. Steph’s whole body is shaking, and he can feel Klay nodding underneath him, pushing in even deeper. 

“Okay,” Klay says, and pulls his fingers out, slowly. Steph squirms at the sensation, and Klay rubs his thigh, soothing. 

Klay has to guide Steph’s hips up, hovering above Klay. It doesn’t work on the first try, but Steph lets out a little giggle and Klay laughs too, helps him readjust, uses one hand at the base of his dick to steady it as Steph moves down. 

Suddenly he’s _there,_ he’s _inside Steph_ , and Steph throws his head back, squeezes Klay’s hand, tight. It’s. It’s. He can’t describe it. He has to pause halfway down, tears overflowing, and Klay slides his hand up to the back of Steph’s neck, pulls him down as he leans up for a kiss, both of them shaking. Steph inhales deeply, lets it out as he moves slowly down, and makes a noise he’s never made before as he settles into the cradle of Klay’s hips. 

“So beautiful,” Klay murmurs, hands on Steph’s hips, thumbs stroking down Steph’s obliques. Steph rocks a little, unable to hide his blush, to squirm away, and of course it only encourages Klay. “So fucking beautiful, God, babe.”

Steph starts moving for real, bracing his hands on his thighs, arching his back. It’s the best feeling he could ever imagine, until Klay pulls him down for a kiss and then carefully flips them, Steph’s leg around Klay’s waist, Klay’s good knee braced against the bed. And that’s even better, Klay can kiss him and set the pace as Steph falls apart around him. 

Klay slides his hand around Steph’s dick, and Steph realizes that it’s the first time it’s been touched. It’s almost too much, and Steph cries out. Klay has to kiss him and murmur, “Shhhhh, babe,” slowing his hand down but not loosening his grip. Steph doesn’t know which way to move, and it builds and builds until he’s shaking, coming, biting Klay’s shoulder to get through it. 

Klay tries to pull out and Steph whines, holds him tight in place with Steph’s thighs. “Okay, okay,” Klay says, “I got you. Don’t worry.” He’s kissing Steph, rocking in and out of him slowly, but Steph wants more, wants Klay to lose control like Steph did. 

“More, faster, c’mon, please,” Steph manages, and he can feel a tear drip down the corner of his eye, running sideways to the bed. 

Klay kisses him, too-soft, and Steph’s about to whine again when it shifts, Klay goes from practice to game, starts fucking Steph in long, hard strokes, a unforgiving rhythm. It’s exactly what Steph needs, and he floats, blissful, until Klay starts losing his pace, shoves into Steph and stays there while he comes, his head buried in Steph’s neck. 

Steph has no frame of reference for the feeling, but he loves it, loves feeling Klay so close, in and around and everything to him. Klay’s shaking with the aftershocks, his dick softening, and Steph kisses him, messy. 

They stay like that for a while, until Klay shifts, feels their abs stuck together, and slides out carefully, flopping next to Steph. Steph’s shivering uncontrollably, stuck on the feeling of emptiness, loss, and he kisses Klay, needy. “Oh babe,” Klay says, sweet, and pulls Steph in so he’s on his side, one leg bent, thigh across Klay’s hips. He slides two fingers back into Steph, not deep just _there,_ and Steph instantly relaxes. 

“You’re gonna kill me, Curry,” Klay tells him, voice warm and rough, and Steph kisses his neck, right where his scruff ends. He feels boneless, sinking into Klay. 

It’s right where he belongs. 

*** 

They wake up disoriented in the middle of the night, sticky with sweat and more. Steph orders them room service, forbidden burgers and even curly fries. Klay happily devours his in bed, one arm around Steph, a single lamp illuminating his golden skin like a wooden carving in candlelight. Steph can’t stop looking at him, and Klay wrinkles his nose when he catches him staring, elbows him. “What, do I have something on my face?” he asks, and Steph laughs. 

“Yup,” he tells him, and leans forward, sloppily licks a spot of ketchup off his cheekbone. 

Klay shoves him away, but catches Steph’s shoulder with his other hand before he goes too far. “You’re gross,” he tells Steph. 

“You’re gross,” Steph says, dumb and happy. He checks Klay with his shoulder, and Klay retaliates with a pinch on his thigh. It ends, inevitably, with Klay sliding down Steph’s body as Steph’s hand clenches and unclenches in his hair, pressing Steph’s hips down, taking him down deep. Steph comes gasping, then finally gets his hand around Klay’s dick, marveling at the way Klay’s eyes go half-lidded and his muscles twitch when Steph runs his thumb over the head.

Afterwards, Klay drags him to the shower. Steph winces at the state of their sheets, makes a note to leave a few hundreds as a tip the next morning. Klay kisses him as Steph washes himself, distracting him from the strange feeling, and Steph thinks about dropping to his knees, trying to apply the practical demonstration. Next time, he thinks.

They’re both in bed, crushed up against each other in the only not-destroyed sliver of sheets, when Klay slides out of bed, ignoring Steph’s grabby hands. 

He walks to his suitcase, starts shaking out clothes, throwing shit everywhere. He finally reaches into a small inner pocket, and triumphantly pulls out his phone. 

As he gets back in bed, Steph watches him press his home and volume button, holding down until the apple shows up. He looks at Steph and shrugs, shy. “Gotta text my mom,” he says, and Steph kisses him, minty, fresh, brand-new. 

***

  
**warriors** #SplashBrosForever

**Author's Note:**

> this is for dr. [baking-soda](https://baking-soda.tumblr.com/). so many, many thanks to her and [allison](https://jamwingles.tumblr.com//) for patience, kindness, and truly invaluable suggestions. also thanks to them for fixing all of the many ways i messed up basketball terminology. i've had so much fun learning about basketball and i'm so grateful.


End file.
